


A Note of Prevention

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:53:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25671637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: When a scream shatters Baker Street in the early hours of the morning, Holmes is left trying to treat something he still does not fully understand.
Kudos: 19





	A Note of Prevention

“Get down!”

The scream startled him out of a dead sleep, and he stared at the ceiling, unmoving as he tried to decide what he had heard.

“Help me stop the bleeding! Come on, Johnston. Stay awake!”

The words came from Watson’s room, and he sat up, frowning. What was going on up there? Who was Johnston?

“Alec! Go around the other way before I have to treat you, too! And watch out for that spot we found earlier!”

He pulled on his dressing gown and hurried up the stairs, still trying to figure out what he was hearing. Watson rarely cried out in his sleep, and never so loudly.

At least, he never had before. So many things had changed.

Deciding not to turn up the gas, he used the early morning sunlight to quickly climb the stairs as another order shook the air.

“It’s too dangerous here. We have to move him. Alec, hold pressure. Murray, get his feet. That’s it. Let’s go. Behind that clump of trees.”

His heart sank. Murray was a name he recognized, and he braced himself to find his friend caught in another regression. He had thought his friend was getting better, however slowly, but Watson had grown so skilled at hiding in plain sight that Holmes could not be sure, and this seemed to prove that he had missed something.

He pushed the door open as silence fell, and he strained to see in the rising light. He would have to be careful. Watson would never forgive himself if either of them took injury.

His friend lay on the bed, tossing in the blankets as his eyes moved rapidly beneath closed lids, and he hesitated. Was Watson asleep? Then what had he heard?

“Retreat? Did they just call a retreat?” There was a pause, a quiet, “It’s about time,” then a louder, “Stay with me, Johnston! We’ll get you out of here. Johnston? James!”

A quiet sob escaped, but Watson’s eyes remained closed. A nightmare, then. Battle fatigue, yes, but not a regression. Watson had warned him that sleepwalking was possible when memories became nightmares, however. He would still have to be careful.

“Yes, you’re right. Come on.” The bed started shaking, and Holmes realized Watson was trying to run beneath the sheets. He was just about to speak when Watson called out again.

“Alec! Look out! No!” Watson’s hands moved, pressing into the blankets as if he was holding pressure on a wound. “No, I won’t need to tell her. Stay with me! She doesn’t want me. She wants you! She always has.”

“Watson?”

“Alec!” Watson stilled, and another sob escaped. Holmes barely heard the next words. “Farewell, my friend.” The bed started shaking again, vibrating in time to Watson’s thrashing.

“Watson, wake up.” There was no answer, and Holmes carefully walked closer to lay a gentle hand on Watson’s arm as he tried again. “Watson. Wake up. It is just a dream.”

His hand barely brushed his friend’s arm before Watson jerked away with a gasp, then lunged to his feet to stand in the middle of the floor.

“Watson?” Was he awake?

Watson slashed his hand through the air. “Stay there. It’s my turn to hunt for traps.” A beat of silence, then, quieter, “I did not intend to fall asleep. My apologies.”

Holmes froze, his initial hope that Watson had woken fading. He kept posture harmless, non-threatening, doing his best to stay ally instead of enemy as Watson began pacing the floor, still calling out orders. Hoping the movement would wake his friend, he remained quiet at first as Watson paced. Long minutes passed, however, and Watson’s pacing was slowly bringing him closer to where Holmes knew he kept a knife. Watson was not going to wake on his own.

“Watson,” he tried again, keeping his voice quiet, calm. “Watson, it is a dream.”

Watson froze at his voice, then spun towards the fireplace. Confusion crossed his face. “What are you doing here?”

Holmes said nothing, unsure what to do. Had Watson even heard him?

Watson’s confusion fled a moment later, however, as horror filled his gaze. “No! Move!”

What was Watson seeing? Their conversation so many months before had not covered something like this, and he had no idea what to do. How could he help?

Watson flinched, and heavy grief replaced the horror before he bowed his head, seeming to deflate where he stood.

The dejection in that stance propelled Holmes to action, and he stepped forward.

“Watson?” There was still no answer, and he applied one of Watson’s many warnings, moving around to be in Watson’s line of sight before he reached forward.

His hand landed on his friend’s arm, and Watson flinched but continued staring through the floor. His gaze reflected the air of dejection in his posture, and Holmes wondered what his friend was seeing.

“Watson, can you hear me? You need to wake up.”

There was no response, and he tried again. “Watson, look at me.”

Watson’s gaze slowly lifted to meet his, and a small amount of confusion mixed with the grief.

“Holmes?”

“You are home, Watson.”

The confusion remained for another long moment as Watson glanced around the room, and Holmes stayed quiet, unsure if Watson had actually seen him or if the dream had just changed again.

“Watson?” he asked quietly when his friend made no reply.

Watson’s gaze jerked back to meet Holmes’, and, slowly, the confusion mixed with hope.

“Holmes?” Watson’s hand gripped his arm, and Holmes smothered a sigh of relief.

“You are home, Watson.”

The confusion fled, pure relief showing briefly in Watson’s expression before it disappeared beneath the mask Holmes could still not get comfortable seeing, and Watson looked around the room again, noting the mussed blankets and the open door. Holmes remained silent, ignoring Watson’s grip on his arm to let his friend use touch to bring himself back to the present. Several minutes passed before Watson seemed to realize the crushing grip he had on Holmes’ arm, and he quickly let go, his gaze flicking across the floor as he embarrassedly avoided eye contact.

“Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Holmes studied him for a moment, trying to decide what to say. “The retreat?” he finally asked.

Watson tensed but nodded after a moment, easing himself down onto the foot of the bed and picking at the blanket, obviously embarrassed that Holmes had witnessed his nightmare. His hesitation said more than his nod, however, and Holmes asked another question.

“What else?”

Watson tensed again and finally made eye contact, and Holmes tried to let his friend see at least some of the worry coursing through him, another warning ringing in his mind.

_Give him data…Your actions must match your words. Always._

He must have succeeded, at least to some degree, because Watson answered, his voice quiet, nearly gruff.

“The case, somewhat.”

Holmes thought back, trying to fit their case into Watson’s actions. They had just finished a kidnapping case in a lower-class portion of the city. Three men had kidnapped a mother and her son to blackmail the father, and Watson had helped him capture the kidnappers in a condemned building… which had collapsed just after they had escaped. The dream must have changed real events to have someone—probably Holmes—trapped under a falling structure. Perhaps in the war Watson had been dreaming about previously?

Holmes carefully sat at the head of the bed, trying to decide what Watson needed him to do. He wanted to help, but the span of a few months was _not_ long enough for him to grow comfortable with something like this. Watson’s intense gaze followed the movement, however, and Holmes set the question aside in place of confusion. Why was Watson studying him as if he expected Holmes to disappear?

Another incident sprang to mind, of waking Watson out of another dream to see the same intense gaze, and he put his hand on the doctor’s shoulder, squeezing gently so that Watson would have the touch as confirmation.

“It was a dream, Watson. This is not. You are awake.”

Watson smiled faintly, finally relaxing completely, but he said nothing, and Holmes continued. “Join me downstairs?”

The smile flickered into a smirk as Watson remembered another night with the same phrase, but he nodded and stood. Holmes stayed close, his focus never leaving Watson as they left the room. He did not miss the way Watson awkwardly held his shoulder, nor the limp that had worsened since the night before, and the observations did nothing for his worry.

Footsteps reached the lower landing as they came to the top of the steps, and Holmes tore his gaze from Watson to see Mrs. Hudson on her way up, worry on her face.

Seeing Holmes at the top of the stairs, she opened her mouth to call up, but she changed what she had been about to say when she noticed Watson.

“I thought I heard movement,” she said lightly. “Would you like breakfast? I was up anyway, and I can have it ready soon.”

Holmes glanced at Watson, who had stilled at the mention of food. “Just a pot of tea, for now, Mrs. Hudson. And maybe some toast?”

The relief in Watson’s expression assured him he had answered correctly, and he looked down in time to catch Mrs. Hudson’s nod.

“It’ll be up shortly,” she replied, casting another worried glance at Watson before turning back down the stairs.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

The sentence was quiet, but it was audible, and Holmes struggled not to show his relief at the words. If Watson’s manners were returning, then he was on his way to recovering from such a nightmare. Holmes had quickly noted that Watson rarely spoke when something was bothering him.

They descended to the sitting room in silence as Holmes struggled to decide what he wanted to ask—what he _could_ ask. Would Watson even allow the conversation? His friend had grown skilled at replying without answering, and sometimes it was only when he mulled over the conversation later that he realized Watson had never really answered his question. Other times, Watson simply ignored the question, pretending he hadn’t heard it until Holmes gave up. It would do him no good to push; Watson would only withdraw further. Watson may not be able to prevaricate, but his dissembling skills had grown dramatically, and Holmes knew it was his own fault. He was the one who had left, and he was the one who hadn’t returned fast enough. Most of the time—during their cases, day-to-day, etc.—everything seemed nearly back to the normal he remembered. Watson was a stalwart partner as ever, and he trusted his friend to guard his back, but when Watson himself was hurting—bothered by something—Holmes could clearly see the reserve his friend still carried. He wanted to fix it, but he could not deduce without data. This was not a case, with a room full of leads with which to start. This was his friend, who was still struggling to trust him even after so many months.

Deciding to let Watson dictate the conversation, silence filled the room. He studied the doctor while he waited, trying to deduce what questions would receive an answer, but Watson had changed so much that Holmes struggled to read anything at all. It was disconcerting, both as one accustomed to reading others and as one accustomed to Watson being so open. Going from being able to read everything plainly to struggling to read even the basics had born a worry that had only grown in the months since his return. Watson may have gotten slightly better, may have started letting him in slightly more, but there was still a long way to go if Holmes wanted to return to the time when his friend had trusted him completely.

It was only when he had lost that trust that he realized how much he had valued it. When he would have uncomfortably blown off such a discussion was when Watson would have been willing to talk. Now, when he knew better than to brush it aside no matter how uncomfortable it made him, Watson no longer trusted him enough. He would work to regain the trust he had shattered, and he could only hope that he would succeed with time.

Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, and the door opened a moment later. She carried a tray over to the table, but, reacting to the heavy silence, she left the tea and toast with barely a word. Holmes tried to hide his worry at Watson’s silence, but Mrs. Hudson’s glance spoke hers nearly aloud.

Holmes was halfway through his cup of tea before Watson finally spoke.

“Thank you.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow at the quiet words, clearly asking what he had done. He did not think he had done anything.

Watson read the question. “For waking me,” he answered shortly.

Holmes nodded, his gaze never leaving Watson. Of course, he would wake him. He just wished he knew how to be of help.

“I did not hurt you, did I?” Watson asked again, his gaze scanning Holmes for injuries. “Why are you staring at me like that? What did I do?”

Holmes shook his head. “You did not hurt me. You talked in your sleep, and you paced the floor for a few minutes. I just—” he unconsciously fidgeted and broke off, unsure how to voice his wish.

“You just, what?”

He studied his friend, trying to decide how Watson would react before he tried to voice his thoughts aloud.

Tension grew in Watson’s posture the longer Holmes remained silent, and he forced himself to speak the words. “I just want to help,” he quietly finished the sentence.

A hesitant smile flickered across Watson’s face, and some of the tension fell away.

“You already have.”

Holmes frowned as he reviewed his actions, unsure what he had done right. He had barely done anything. Watson’s gaze drifted towards the violin in the corner before he could ask, however, and he set aside the question for another time. If he could not help, maybe his music could.

The opening strains of _Lieder_ filled the room, and the rest of the tension disappeared as Watson leaned back in his armchair. Holmes had never been able to deduce what about the violin Watson so enjoyed, but he did not have to understand it to make use of it. He began running through all his old—and some new—songs and noting which ones Watson seemed to enjoy the most.

And when he glanced over to find Watson fast asleep on the settee an hour later, he simply lowered his volume slightly and kept playing, hoping that the music would drive away any further nightmares.

After all, prevention was better than cure, at times.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)


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